


cedar + gold

by atlantisairlock



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Cinderella, F/F, Fluff, Happy Ending, Love at First Sight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-16
Updated: 2014-09-16
Packaged: 2018-02-17 15:30:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2314460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atlantisairlock/pseuds/atlantisairlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once upon a time, she was just another girl in Westeros.</p>
            </blockquote>





	cedar + gold

**Author's Note:**

> title from the tristan prettyman album.

Once upon a time she was just another girl in Westeros. 

The Starks were never all that grand a family - so when Catelyn died there was no pomp or ceremony, just a quiet goodbye from Sansa and her father. 

Sansa doesn't remember much about her mother. Childhood is little more than a blur, of one mother dying and another coming into her life. Only this one doesn't have the warmth and love she vaguely remembers Catelyn for. This one has two daughters of her own who are older than her, who look at her like she's little more than the soot they make her sweep from the chimneys. Ned never notices; he never does, just leaves his first to dress in her stepsisters' ragged hand-me-downs, leaves his first to eat the dregs from meals and nothing better than that. 

She has never had any more than that, not really. All she has is Lady. Her direwolf, who curls up beside her in the cold, cold nights when she's not allowed any more than rags to keep her warm. Her direwolf, who has never strayed from her side. Hers. 

It is all she needs to keep her content. 

 

 

When the royal family announces that they're holding a ball at the palace in celebration of the heir's twenty-first birthday, her other mother immediately starts making preparations for her own daughters - orders the dresses, the shoes, fusses with them about how to behave at the ball so the prince will notice them. Sansa clears the table quietly, listens as they speak. 

She wants to go. Of course she does - not to catch the eye of the prince, not to secure a marriage into the royal family. Just... to finally know what it is, for once, to be wanted. To be  _there._

But Sansa has long learned that there is no point in asking when she already knows the answer will be no. She resigns herself to obediently helping her stepsisters with their outfits, their hair, everything else on the day, resigns herself to looking out of the window and watching the festivities, and dreaming of being there, as well.

She refuses to cry when they leave for the palace; instead she just hugs Lady close to her and buries her face in the direwolf's thick fur. Tears are useless, after all.

Only, maybe... this time they're not.

 

 

The septa doesn't come through the door, or the window, or, seven hells, even the chimney. She simply appears in front of Sansa when the girl lifts her face from her arm, wiping away her tears. Unsurprisingly, Sansa lets out a scream and leaps backward, dragging Lady with her. 

"Who are you? What are you doing in here?" Her eyes are wild as she panics - _how did Lady not stop her from coming in?_  "How did you get in here?"

The septa just watches her, calm and collected. "Don't be afraid, my child. You want to go to the palace - isn't that so?"

Sansa bites her lip, avoiding the septa's gaze, sinking to the ground and wrapping her arms around Lady's neck. "I do," she murmurs, the words thick with tears. "But - I can't."

"You can." Firm and determined, she takes Sansa's hand and pulls her back to a standing position. "You shall go to the ball, Sansa. Just like your stepsisters."

Her laugh is bitter, mirthless, as she stares down at her torn, old clothing. "What, in rags? On foot, with no shoes, across the cobblestone all the way to the palace, so far away? I think not."

The septa just smiles back at her. "Do you believe in magic?"

Everything inside her screams _no,_ because, after all - magic does not exist. If it existed it would have given her a way out of all this a long time, ago, and yet - 

Or does it?  _Could_ it? If she believed in it enough, more than she had before this - could it?

"I - I think I  _could,_ " Sansa attempts, and the septa responds to that with a light chuckle. "It will do." And then the she's chanting something, loud and commanding, and all Sansa can do is watch in amazement as the sparks begin to swirl within the room. Her clothes turn into the most beautiful dress she's ever seen, her hair grows longer, dark red waves past her shoulder blades. What alarms her is when the wisp of magic sweeps Lady right out of the door, and she disappears.

"Lady!" Sansa looks around wildly. "What did you - what did you do to her?"

"She is right outside." The septa leads Sansa by the hand onto the path just in front of her door, and there stands a beautiful camargue, just Lady's colour, complete with saddle and stirrups, just waiting to be ridden. It nuzzles into Sansa's hand as she walks forward, eyes gleaming, and Sansa just  _knows_ that the septa isn't lying - this is her Lady. 

She's lost for words. There is nothing to say. 

"Get on! The ball will be starting soon." 

Sansa nods, and with the septa's help mounts the horse. A brief pang of fear makes her turn back to this wielder of magic. "I don't know how to get to the palace!"

"The magic will lead you where you want to be. Just allow your horse to take you there. But remember! You  _must_ be out of the palace by midnight - the magic will help you get there and back. If you leave after midnight... your clothes, your shoes, your horse - will all return to normal." It's a reassurance and a warning all at once, one that Sansa knows she will heed. After all, all she wants is to be there, to see the festivities, to participate, to _have_ something, just for once. And then she will leave. One night. It is all she needs, and it is all she wants. 

 

\---

 

She is the only daughter of Mace and Alerie Tyrell, king and queen of all of Westeros. She is the only sister of Willas, Loras and Garlan Tyrell. She is the people's only Princess.

And she is bored. 

Margaery stifles a huge yawn as another young man tries to win her hand, offering her a glass of wine and an over-eager smile. She has to smile back, pander to his foolishness and gently refuse his affections; the people would never accept anything less than grace, elegance and perfect courtesy of their princess. Frankly she'd rather throw the wine in his face and go upstairs to her room to get some much-needed sleep. The ball was a brilliant idea to get Willas a wife, of course; Loras has all the best ideas, but Margaery simply cannot see  _why_ her presence was necessary. Her mother had called her out on her supposed-sickness within a minute this afternoon and her father had proceeded to give her a long rambling lecture on why a princess had to appear to her people and make an impression. 

Well, it's obvious that nobody of any worth's paying any attention to her - it's as if  _all_ the girls in the kingdom are fawning over her brothers. Margaery gives up trying to find a pretty, available young lady to speak to, and extracts herself from the crowd to get a breath of fresh air before she throws up over her shoes at the constant flow of ridiculous chatter. 

She's just stepped out into the front hall when the unmistakeable sound of a horse's hooves reach her ears. Her brows knit together - someone is  _quite_ late to the ball.

Then the guards open the door with disapproving frowns on their faces and all the breath leaves Margaery's lungs in one go, because the most beautiful girl she's ever seen is standing in front of her in a lovely dress and is apparently here at the palace to attend _stupid_ Willas' _stupid_ birthday ball.

The girl seems as stunned to see the Princess of Westeros standing in the hallway, jaw slack. Immediately she bows, gaze not meeting Margaery's. "Princess Margaery."

"Ah. Yes." Margaery consciously forces a smile back onto her face and reaches a hand out to take the girl's. "I assume you are here for the ball? It is rather late."

A flush appears on her cheeks. "Yes - I... I apologise for my lateness."

Internally Margaery sends a fervent thanks to the Seven. "It's no worry at all - the ball has just begun. Come, let me take you to the hall. Willas will be delighted to meet another lady from the kingdom."  _To hell with Willas,_   _I'm delighted._

"Thank you very much." The girl bows again, shallow and quick, and follows Margaery into the hall. Margaery watches her disappear into the crowd, eyes wide with wonder, and exhales, heading to get another glass of wine. Well. That's enough motivation to stay in the hall - for now, at least. With some luck, she won't even want to fawn over Willas anyway.

 

 

She doesn't expect to see her mystery lady again until the ball ends, but then there's the sound of a disturbance near the back of the hall and Mace yells at his daughter to go and settle it before it escalates into a full-blown riot and the ball's ruined - which, as the Tyrells have learnt the hard way, could potentially  _actually_ happen even on palace grounds. Margaery sets her glass down and stalks over, ready to slap some sense into two scuffling young men, and instead the sight that meets her is one of an inebriated, scruffy male specimen with his large grimy hands on her mystery girl's hips, equally filthy words spilling out of his mouth faster than the alcohol's going in. She is obviously uncomfortable, looking on the verge of tears as she tries to push him away.

The words are out of her mouth before she can stop herself, steel and iron. "Get your hands off her this instant, ser."

He turns to her, slow and alcohol-impaired and for a moment Margaery thinks he's going to send an inappropriately sexual retort back at her, but even at his state of drunkenness this man knows better than to disrespect the Princess. His hands drop back down to his sides and he shuffles off, swagger still intact. Margaery considers the pros and cons of flinging the nearest heavy object at his head and decides instead to step forward and take the girl by the hands. Her tone is softer, gentler. "Are you all right?"

She nods her head, but Margaery can see that she's shaking, her lips pale. 

"Come with me." It's not a request, more a firm order, and the princess is glad when she does. 

 

 

The gardens are empty, silent aside from the cacophony of crickets chirping. Margaery leads the girl to a stone bench and sits her down by her side, one arm around her shoulders. The girl looks patently uncomfortable and nervous as she stares up at her. "I... I'm very sorry, Princess."

"Whatever for?" She feels the surge of anger again at the memory of that disgusting man with his disgusting hands touching this girl without her consent. "If anything,  _he_ ought to be sorry."

"But I have caused you inconvenience..." The girl ducks her head, her hair falling over to drape over her face. "And I am now... distracting you from the festivities."

The half-giggle, half-snort that Margaery produces is completely unbecoming of a princess but that's what she wants it to be. "I have no wish to stay at the ball, I assure you. I would much rather stay here with you, and talk, maybe dance." The girl's eyes widen and Margaery quickly backtracks. "I mean... if you would like that."

The girl tucks her hair back behind her ear and smiles shyly up at Margaery. "... yes, Princess. I would like that very much." 

 

 

The girl is very good at dancing, Margaery discovers after a brief twirl in the garden. They do a neat two-step on the garden path and before long a genuine smile shines bright on her face. The princess is happy, contented, triumphant - Father can  _suck it;_ nobody missed her, did they? She could do this all night.

And, in fact, so they do. A minute before midnight they've spent two hours in the expanse of the gardens, exploring, dancing, talking, and as they dance what Margaery plans to be her final dance of the night, she dips the girl so her long red hair nearly touches the ground and her face is inches away from Margaery's own.

"I would very much like to kiss you," she murmurs, her lips barely moving. "Would you oblige me that?"

The girl does. It is not Margaery's first kiss, but it is the best she has ever known, and for a moment, the night is just perfect. 

 

 

And then the clock strikes twelve, the bells clang, and the moment they do Margaery thinks she spies a horse _galloping_  across the greento where she and the girl are standing. 

She turns to say goodnight to the girl, to ask her how to find her again, to ask her name. She does not expect her to gasp in horror, to turn tail and run away, out of the gardens and out of the palace grounds, without a second thought. 

As the sound of clopping hooves grows closer and louder - the girl disappears into the night.

So does the bloody _horse_ , in fact. Where a handsome steed stood moments ago now lies a confused-looking animal that resembles a wolf, only a bit bigger with a heavier build. Margaery rubs her eyes for a good ten seconds, praying that the seemingly-able-to-shapeshift-thing is just a hallucination brought about by too much alcohol. Unfortunately, when she takes her fists away from her face the thing is still there, only now it's standing up and staring at her, panting, the expression of terror in its eyes obviously a reflection of her own. Its tail swishes against the dry soil, a few flicks or two, and then it begins to howl. 

"Oh no, no,  _damn,_ " Margaery bites off a few choice curses - seven hells, a runaway almost-lover and now a shapeshifter all in one night; how is this her  _life_? - and bends down to meet the animal's eyes. It doesn't seem like it's rearing up for an attack; good. She edges a little closer and lowers her voice. "Shush.  _Hush._ I'm going to bring you inside the palace, Terrifying Thing, because I like animals no matter how scary they are and it will be fun pissing Father off, but you mustn't create such a scene."

Margaery doubts the animal understands her words, but it seems to recognise the tone in which they're spoken, since it quiets down, the howls dying into whimpers when she puts a gentle hand on its head. "That's good. Follow me." She stands and beckons it up, begins to guide the animal into the palace. It takes one step by cautious step on the ornate tiling, paws shuffling against the floor, obviously uncertain about its surroundings. She walks in front of it and takes a few paces down the hall, then waits for it to catch up. Good; so far it seems to be following her lead. The princess lets out a sigh of relief.

And... that's when Loras lets out an almighty shout from inside the hall - some poor fool spilled wine over his shirt, she'll later discover. The animal startles and changes direction straight into a mass of partygoers, and all hell breaks loose.

"Fucking  _\- seven hells,_ " Margaery groans, and starts going after it.

 

 

A mad chase, two hours, three long lectures and many minor scratches later, Margaery is sitting in the study, scowling over a giant encyclopaedia covered in a thick layer of dust. This is the fourth one she's gone through now, going by alphabetical order, trying to discern what kind of - according to her mother -  _bloody hellborn beast_  she's _brought into our hallowed halls, you idiot child_. She leans into the warm mass of fur curled up against her hip, its flank rising and falling as it breathes, slow and steady while lost in sleep. "You'd better be worth squinting over these tomes - this font must have been made for insects - ah!" 

_There!_

Right there is a detailed set of drawings under an equally detailed description, headed by one word in elegantly inked script.

_Direwolves._

Margaery turns a critical eye to the animal she's snuggled up with - it really is better than a bonfire, whatever Loras insinuated - and shoves the book under its nose. "Is that you, Terrifying Thing?" She prods the drawing with one finger and what-she-suspects-is-a-direwolf grunts, placing a huge paw over its nose. "You're a  _direwolf._ That's what I spent hours flipping for. Brave, ferocious, loyal to your master or mistress or whatever. No wonder you were so upset when you realised she left you behind." The princess sighs and shuts the book with a loud thud before pressing herself a little closer against the furry body. "Yes, direwolf. Sleep, and tomorrow we'll look for your mistress." She pauses and lets a small smile slip onto her face. "I want to see her as much as you do."

 

\---

 

Sansa is out of the house the next morning before dawn even breaks. The cobbled stone beneath her bare feet is cold as icicles and sharp as the same, and the rags on her thin frame barely shield her from the whirling winds, but the chill is nothing compared to the cold horror in her heart when she thinks about Lady. After she got home and managed to calm down and process her wonderful, wonderful night and her first _kiss,_ with the  _Princess,_ no less - she lay in bed and closed her eyes and that was when she remembered Lady. Her beautiful, loyal direwolf, who let herself be changed into a steed for the night, who she  _left behind at the palace._

"Lady!" The town is silent but for her footfalls and the desperate calls that burst from her lips every few minutes. " _Lady!_ " 

Does she run for minutes, for hours, for days? Sansa doesn't know, winding through the confusing maze of paths, trying to figure out how she got to the palace the previous night. All she knows is that sometime when the sun is just beginning to light up the town and the people are beginning to rise, she falls to her knees in the middle of a crossroads, trying not to cry.

_My Lady -_

 

\---

 

Margaery's been out of the palace since the direwolf awoke and started pacing around her in great distress, waking her up with soft yowls that echoed loudly within the library. She'd pulled on a thick coat and watched the animal stand and wait in anticipation at the palace gates while she laced up her boots. "You really want to go home, don't you?"

It's not as easy as she expected, trying to find the owner of the direwolf. Most people aren't even awake yet - the sun hasn't yet risen - and she's had four false alarms when the animal's started pulling towards a particular house, but the person living there has never claimed the direwolf as their own. More accurately, when she rings the bell insistently and they come to the door to meet her, they usually say something along the lines of "revered Princess, it's bloody five in the morning so take that beast from my door and go away". It's rather fruitless - until she turns the corner and she gets to the crossroads. 

All Margaery sees is a young woman on her knees, in obvious despair, in no condition to be out in the cold. For a moment she forgets about her otherworldly dancer from the previous night and the direwolf at her side, she just runs forward to offer help.

But the direwolf beats her to it - it lopes away from Margaery and nuzzles into the woman's side. She freezes and looks up, face streaked with tears, and lets out a cry of such unadulterated joy that it warms Margaery from head to toe as she watches her fling her arms around the direwolf, its cheek pressed against hers. _"Lady!"_

Margaery draws a sharp breath. That  _voice..._ and the direwolf  _knowing_ her...

"My lady," Margaery echoes the woman's own words, and the direwolf's mistress turns to look up at her. "It _is_  you."

"Princess Margaery!" The words are shadowed by a trembling voice and Margaery feels her heart clench, first in horror when she sees the young woman's lips are pale and she's shivering in the frigid air, then in discomfort when her lady, her beautiful lady from last night falls back into a kneeling position and bows low. When she speaks again, it's choked with emotion. "Thank you for bringing my direwolf - my Lady - back to me."

The princess goes down on one knee and touches her lady's shoulder. "Get up." The woman obeys, but keeps her distance, eyes filled with fear and reverence. "What is your name?"

Her hands tremble. "Sansa, Princess."

"And this is your direwolf? Its - her name is Lady?"

"Yes, Princess." The direwolf whines and rubs itself against Sansa's leg. "She is my pride and joy, Princess."

Margaery thinks that if Sansa says  _princess_ one more time she might throw up. She steps forward and takes Sansa's hands in hers, smiling gently at her. "I am Margaery for you, Sansa - whether in the palace grounds, or here. _Always_." Margaery takes a glance down at Sansa's feet, bare and scratched from her search for her direwolf. "But you must tell me - why are you in tattered rags and bare feet, now, when I saw you in the most stunning gown just last night? In fact, why is it that you came on a horse, but it is a direwolf I am bringing home to you?"

Sansa swallows visibly and thinks back to what the magical septa said. 

_Do you believe in magic?_

"I can tell you, Pri - Margaery." The name is strange, foreign on her tongue. "But first I must ask you..." Her voice dips. "Do you believe in magic?"

If Margaery is thrown by the question, she doesn't show it; an easy smile crosses her face and she nods - she thinks, no, she _knows_ she could fall in love with this girl, and nothing changes that. "I do."

So Sansa begins to speak. She tells her story, best as she can, even if it takes a while as they stand in the cold. She finally closes her explanation with a sincere apology. "I... I apologize for the deception, Princess. I beg your forgiveness."

Margaery stays quiet for a while, running over Sansa's story in her head, before bending down to pat Lady on the head. "Sansa?"

"Yes?"

Her words are preceded with a kiss, passionate and intense and full of feeling - Margaery tangles her fingers in Sansa's long hair and Sansa kisses her back as enthusiastically. 

"You have another lady, now." 

The meaning of the words brings a smile to Sansa's face. "So I do."

 

\---

 

Once upon a time she was just another girl in Westeros. 

And once upon a time she thought all she wanted and all she needed was one night, one night of magic to make up for the rest of her life.

But then Margaery swept her off her feet, took her away from all she'd ever known and never wanted; she is  _Margaery's,_ she is the princess', she is  _a_ princess; all of Westeros and the Tyrells know and respect and love her as Princess Stark, Princess Tyrell's lover, and Sansa knows now -

 _this_ is all she wants, and  _she_ is all she needs. 


End file.
